Lillies Of The Valley
by UnagiKeki
Summary: This is eternity; this is what we've been waiting for. GaaraMatsuri oneshots, with no specific theme; flamers welcome.
1. Familiar

**AN: Please, oh please, flame this couple/my work/this anime. PLEASE do it, so I can ramble about the nature of canon-ity/my life/Masashi Kishimoto's brilliance. And then I'll keep writing GaaMatsu fics, just to piss you off. **

**Gaara needs a girl, period- and if Matsuri can be everything that he needs, more power to her. Plus they're so cute...**

* * *

The sand feels and carries sound long before ears can begin perceiving it.

When his feet are on the ground, there's nothing Gaara can't feel the presence of; the things above the ground and the secret cities beneath them all, like an upside-down universe. To know the sand is to know things that even the most skilled tracking-nin cannot. The shifting earth of this barren desert has always been, and always knows: it feels the swelling of a disaster before it implodes, recognizes intruders who do not respect it's potential to dessicate, erode, and weather a thing down to bare particles. You cannot get rid of the sand; you cannot unknow it, or even get it out of your shoes when you want to. Gaara could be buried here, completely, and be at peace. He is one with this place, a divining rod with hair like blood and cheeks chapped from the relentless sun and the hail of sandstorms.

So they do each other favors, Gaara and his symbiote: he protects this parched, ageless land by wearing a badge of responsibility for the people who live in it's midst, and the sand always tells him when the people he loves return to safety in their embrace.


	2. Lean Here

**AN: Luff. It's about boogers. **

* * *

Crying is, generally, not pleasant.

He tells her this with his usual level of emotion; seeing that no other source is available, he then offers his own sleeve as a sacrifice to her facial excretions. He wouldn't know; he doesn't cry much, and it's been so long that he could almost forget the pains in one's face, the ache of reddened eyes, and the terrifying vulnerability of letting oneself sob out loud. Crying is an act of security, and Gaara hasn't had much of that in his life. Matsuri can cry because he doesn't, because while she sleeps he is up patrolling the borders of Sunagakure, unwilling to subvert to the will of the beast behind his eyes. Matsuri can be a genin, someone who doesn't have to fight for their life every time they turn around; she can be a student because Gaara is watching over this village, protecting everyone, giving them the chance to live and learn, to love. He can't manage anything else but a dry observation where he would like to comfort her; there's blood on his hands, fear in the people, and enemies in the counsel, but it is all worth it so that Matsuri can feel safe enough to cry. The whole journey has fruition, the pain a meaning.

Even if Gaara cannot articulate his own feelings, someone else can. His job is to make sure that Matsuri can wipe tears and boogers on somebody's shirtsleeve- and life has never been so fulfilling, for it.


	3. Spare Thoughts

_Notes From The Kazekage's Desk:_

The things I want for you are: without total.

Breaths of fall air cold enough to wake your whole body in the morning; leaves dancing down a current of wind when you look out the window at crowded streets; the kind of strength that allows you to swallow fear; the chance to become whoever you desire; beautiful sunsets; perfect love; joy; a foolish youth, and every silly happiness and preoccupation in it, a youth you will look back on fondly; the smell of the ocean when you are homesick; flowers in the most impossible sidewalk cracks; health, greatness, and never a single day that ends with you regretting it's dawn. I want you to live, and I want for good things to always find you.

I want to see you happy.

* * *

_On a piece of scratch paper, rumpled from being in a pocket:_

The things I want for you are: without limits.

A magic eraser that smoothes skin and loss; all of the lies and pain back, with apologies; the love you deserve, strong and unabating; for the world to see you for the man you are in spite of every tragedy; a special someone who will treasure you for what you have defeated; someone to fill in the part of you that aches to be known, who will lie down with you at the end of a long day of protecting, and still be willing to protect and cherish you.

I want to make you happy.


	4. Popsicles

"Just a little longer- stay still, Matsuri-ku-" The screaming of a chicken-shaped kitchen timer cut off Gaara's solemn request.

"YAAAAYYY, THEY'RE DONE!" Matsuri was a blur of chestnut and turquoise as she fairly dove under her mentor's arm, upsetting his stance considerably and causing him to flail for balance. Unaffected by the Kazekage's plight, her gleeful fingers plunged into the permafrost depths of the refrigerator and flung above her head, sparkling with ordinary crystals that were anything but ordinary-

"HALLELUJAH, WE HAVE POPSICLES!"

"Remind me why you are shouting, please…"

"Going senile already?" the girl asked, as she struggled to coax several hunks of radioactive-orange colored ice from their tray. "The only reason that we can't get more senseis for the Academy is because we don't have enough money for practice weapons in their classes… And since Gaara-sensei isn't brilliant enough to come up with a way on his own, his most favorite student dreamed up the _perfect _fundraiser. We'll make a killing- we're in the desert, after all!"

"You're the only student I've ever had, you know- and I've never said that you were any kind of favorite of mine…"

"Just eat the special popsicle I made for you and stop being a spoilsport!" she said; even if Gaara had noticed the flush in her face, Matsuri couldn't imagine him making the leap of emotive reasoning it would take to understand how hurtful his apathy could be. With a particularly gruesome sound, the one odd-colored popicle of the bunch rent from it's gooey plot. Matsuri held up the grease-spotted, bright aubergine stick to him like the Olympic Torch.

"… What the hell is that?"

"It's a gizzard-sicle- 'cause, ya know… that's your favorite…food."

"… Matsuri, why on earth would you make a, a- meat popsicle… oh, god, I think it's moving... "

"That's just the flies!" she declared, waving the offensive insects back into the stale kitchen air. "Hurry up and eat it- it's melting."

He held her with his eyes for the longest time; unimpressed, inexpressive seas of green meeting the steel and unrelenting glare of a young woman possessed. Dust motes circled in the dry sun; they were in the desert, but they were also alone in this world, improbably and fated to be alone with one another. Straining his corded neck, Gaara wrapped his mouth around the meat-sicle without uncrossing his arms, or even stepping forward, leaving Matsuri to stand dumbly holding the stick, her arm moving with the contortions of his thin-lipped mouth. The chicken-timer watched, eyes as old and knowing as the desert; his breath hot on her wrist.

He made a small sound, and licked the salt of blood before a drop of it could escape his mouth, his gaze never escaping hers.

"… That's a pretty good meat popsicle," he finally acknowledged after a long pause.

"Good," she finally murmured. "You're _my_ favorite, too."


End file.
